


Research and Developments

by Kayzo



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Crossdressing, Feelings, M/M, movie typical violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:54:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25939234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kayzo/pseuds/Kayzo
Summary: Q-Branch it always working to create new and better devices for agents in the field. It should come as no surprise that Q himself takes this task seriously and is not above testing the different gadgets out himself, validating wearability and usability.James just hadn’t been aware of how this very professional practice would impact him.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 27
Kudos: 127





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for deciding to check this out! I must admit my experience with the source material is watching the movies once a few years ago, but hopefully you’ll still enjoy!

James remembers when Q branch used to be frightened of him. When he’d get to the outer halls and some analyst or tech would spot him on the cameras (if, of course, he wanted to be spotted). He would hear the hush fall before his hand was on the door (metaphorically speaking, Q branch did away with manual doors quickly, even if they were in an old bunker).

Now—now it’s like he’s not even there, most of the time, and not by conscious effort. There are a few that still stop short, still give him a wide berth, still follow him across the room with their eyes (though Bond is sure that has nothing to do with fear), but the majority hardly look up, continuing with their clacking and state secrets. James isn’t sure that he misses it, per say, but it did give him a bit of a laugh.

It does have its benefits though, one of which being, now that Q branch doesn’t fall into a proverbial ice age when he so much as glances at their lair, he has a much better chance of sneaking up on a certain quartermaster. Not that he would ever call it sneaking, of course, double-o agents do not ‘sneak’ like a teenager trying to nip out of the house for a late-night rendezvous. But it does stand that Bond enjoys giving his quartermaster a bit of a start every now and again.

This time though, it is not Q who gets a shock. Q is right where James expected him to be, standing at the pulpit, surrounded by monitors and minions. He is not, however, dressed in the manner that Bond expects. For all the time James has known the quartermaster, since their first meeting at the museum to each and every interaction in between, Q has had a very predictable unpredictable wardrobe.

Q seems to have exactly one jacket—the parka from their first meeting; a brown/green thing that looks suitable for temperatures between 15 and 20 degrees and nothing more or less. He makes up for the lack with jumpers, cardigans, and suit jackets of about every make and fabric choice in a variety of muted colors that speak to trips to thrift stores and happenstance.

He has that green, velvet jacket from god knows where, the mustard knit vest, blue plaid suit jacket with a matching tie (a crime of fashion, one might say). Those are offset by what must be a treasure trove of white dress shirts, only sometimes interspersed with a black or grey (James is likely to think Q only has one of the other two colors). Add a tie of any pattern or type (always somehow going with his jumper, even if they rarely match—plaid mess withstanding), slacks in black, grey or brown, and sensible brown oxfords. That is the dressing habit of the quartermaster of MI6.

And that holds true for today—up to the footwear. Instead of those sensible shoes found on more than half the staff any odd day of the week, Q is at least 10 centimeters taller, wearing dangerously high heels.

It’s ridiculous, surely. Q with his normal ensemble down to the straight cut of his trouser leg, with high heels tacked on. It’s not even in his style—for all he has eccentric tastes, there is a cohesive style—they’re shiny black, thin heel, with the bright red velvety underside that can be nothing other than Louboutin.

They’re expensive, they’re stylish, they’re the kind of shoe the women James meets on missions wear before he takes them off petite feet as they fall into bed. And now Q is wearing them in the middle of MI6.

Q had never been one to concern himself with fashion labels—or fashion at all, some would say—while Bond very much does; it’s as much a part of his job as shooting a gun, maybe even more so. So, the sight of Q with his foot arched so nicely to conform to a £650 shoe is a dissonance Bond can’t quite rectify.

James Idly wonders what Q would look like if the rest of his outfit matched his new shoes. If someone with money and a certain preoccupation with the finer things took a crack at dressing their quartermaster up. The man has a pretty face, and a slender build for how hard he tries to hide it under layers of cotton and wool and—heaven forbid—polyester.

No one is paying it any mind. Keys keep clacking with the same speed and purpose as always, the low murmur of the best minds in England continue their pursuits. Either since James was sent to Bulgaria two weeks ago Q has adopted a slightly different fashion sense, or there’s a perfectly good reason for this and James isn’t sure he wants to know which is correct.

“Ah, 007,” Q calls, turning away from his console and catching Bond in his sights, “to what does Q-branch owe the pleasure?”

“Q” James responds, walking closer to the man with a purpose now that any element of surprise is lost. When they’re close, James confirms that he is not, in fact hallucinating. Q is standing about five centimeters taller than him now, when before he was about five centimeters shorter.

Q lifts an eyebrow, a prompt to speak. James ignores it.

Q rolls his eyes, “Well come on then, my office. I can’t leave you out here unsupervised.” Q turns on his heel (the phrase more accurate than ever before), and walks towards his office, expecting James to follow. Which he does, but at a bit more of a distance than he would if say, Q were wearing his regular shoes.

When James turns into the office, Q is already in his seat, one ankle balancing on the opposite knee. It’s a pose James has seen before in the (admittedly limited) times he’s seen Q sitting. But now, with the top of his foot on display, it seems strangely intimate.

Q makes a vague gesture to the small sofa he’s got, eyes on his foot, “I honestly don’t know how 003 does it.” he huffs, popping his heel out of the back of the pump, applying a plaster where the back of the shoe hits his skin.

“003?”

Q nods, “yes, I’m working on a new prototype for her,” he gestures to his foot, “she’s already got a few weaponized heels, and honestly they work as a weapon without any modifications.” He gives a wry smile, “She’s always wearing them—some higher than this. And I can’t stand in them for more than three hours without mutiny.”

“Ah.” James maybe stares just a bit too hard. For some reason, he never really took note of 003’s footwear outside of when they spar—Q is right that they make excellent weapons.

Q gives him a scrutinizing look before it drops away, his heel slips back into the shoe and James can just see where the plaster surpasses the back, “Well, how can Q-branch help you, 007?”

“Do you test all our weapons?” at Q’s incredulous—almost offended—look, “Personally, I mean.”

Q shrugs, “Almost always. If they’re my design I’ll do the most testing, but for someone else’s, I generally just do a final test.”

“Are these your design?” he gestures to the heels.

“Yes.” Q gives him another odd look, “Now Bond, is there something you needed, or are you just visiting to make a distraction of yourself?”

James give a smirk of a smile that always makes Q roll his eyes and bids him goodbye.

* * *

It’s amazing how one thing can just nag at the back of your mind, even if you’re thinking of other things, or doing something completely unrelated. James has always valued that little trick of the unconscious mind to latch onto something and mull it over. It’s saved his life more times than he can count—a little thing in Paris that stays with him can be the crux of a matter in Croatia; it’s just how Bond’s world works.

Now though, it’s Q in the back of his mind. And, more often than not, at the front of it. Sometimes as he was, in the heels and his terribly sad brown pants, a mustard jumper and magenta tie over crisp white dress shirt—an absolute crime worn above Louboutin heels. Sometime he’s wearing the heels and something else. Sometimes it’s the heels and nothing else.

James knows he should feel bad about thinking of his quartermaster like this, of hearing his voice on missions guiding him through a medina, or a skyscraper, or a jungle, and tweaking Q’s voice in his head, making it a little breathier, a little raspy, trying to come up with the best approximation of his moan.

But James is a man who kills others, a man who has been tortured and beaten and come out alive on the other side. A little bit of dubious morality on what he gets off to hardly blips on the radar. James doesn’t think Q would really mind if he found out, maybe he would even be flattered. There’s always a bit of tension between them that comes out as verbal sparring but could just as easily come out in other ways. And then there’s the fact that Q suddenly seems to always be testing out new gadgets whenever Bond swings by.

* * *

“Ah, Bond,” Q says, and he’s got earrings dangling long from his ears. An emerald at his lobe, and a long dangle of white gold chain flowing down, ending half way down his neck (looking longer and pale with the bejeweled emphasis). James is sure that Q’s ears weren’t pierced before, surely, but the fastening is very clearly the conventional type.

“I do hope you’re returning a full kit.”

Bond moves to Q’s side and does not look at the state of the man’s feet, “Anything for my dear quartermaster.” He holds up his gun, radio, and tie clip in turn, giving each the proper emphasis for their working state.

Q gives a huff and a quick shake of his head. Bond follows the movement of the white gold chains, “Don’t insult me like that, Bond. Now I _know_ you’ll be returning your earwig, because you were certainly smart enough to _not_ throw it away mid-mission because you were pissy that I was right.”

Bond doesn’t grumble. He won’t give Q the satisfaction, “Certainly not.”

They stand at an impasse.

“Well?”

“It fell out of my ear.”

“Fell—” Q would have thrown his hands up, if he were the type of man, “Right, quite right. Next time I’ll just superglue it in, shall I?”

“Worth a shot.”

* * *

Bond isn’t actually scheduled to show up in Q branch the next day. Nor the day after that, or the day after that. It ends up a habit all the same—arrive at MI6, wonder what the hell he is doing at MI6, wander down to Q branch.

Some days he is lucky and Q is testing a new gun or explosive and asks James if he wants to join. Some days its just paperwork and long-distance surveillance that, if Bond wasn’t so used to long stakeouts at un-interesting locals, would be horrendously boring. Some days its Q shouting and techs running and Bond will turn on his heel and leave because Q is in charge of more lives than anyone can really comprehend.

Bond hadn’t seen Q in heels again (outside his imagination, that is, with tends to insert at the oddest of times), or earrings, but he’s since seen him wearing a £300 tie pin that looks more than out of place on his knitwear tie—more so than the heels, honestly. And wearing cufflinks on a shirt that hasn’t even been ironed, let alone deserves the ruby and gold cuffs (Bond keeps this opinion to himself as, once Q tells him they’re a beacon, a compartment for a listening device, and that the left one can explode, he’s quite hoping that he’ll get to take them for their first in-field test run). And then there’s the day—good lord—that Q is wearing a waistcoat.

It’s not just the waistcoat (although, that waistcoat), it’s the matching trousers and the starched white dress shirt. It’s the jacket hung carelessly over the side of his desk, and the deep black of the suit that makes James want to feel the fabric. He’s wearing bloody brown shoes though, just to make sure that the world knows he still hasn’t got a lick of sense. A though comes to mind, unbidden, of Q in this suit, but instead of dull loafers, he’s wearing the heels.

“What does this one do?” James asks, picking the carelessly tossed suit jacket from the seat back and setting it back down so it drapes over the sides, less likely to wrinkle.

“007!” James gives himself only a moment to smile at Q’s jump; Q gives a huff, “What was that?”

James gives a slight tug at the bottom of Q’s waist coat, it’s tailored to perfection, “Your suit, what does it do?”

Q rolls his eyes, “Covers my body, I would hope.”

“You know what I mean.” Bond lets his eyes trail up the onyx buttons.

“Know what you—” Q’s face scrunches up for a moment before relaxing in understanding, “Ah, I see. This isn’t a mission uniform I’m testing, 007, this is just my suit.”

“And why in the world do you wear cardigans to work when you have this tucked away?” James leaves Q to decide if he’s gesturing to the suit or Q underneath. It’s a bit of both if he’s honest.

“I certainly wouldn’t want to wear this every day,” Q gives a quick, divisive laugh, “I’m not a field agent, I don’t need to wear more money than I make on a monthly basis.”

“Then what brought this on?” James admires the cut of the waistcoat, thinks how nicely the jacket must fall on his shoulders, “it should happen more often.”

Q gives a short burst of a laugh, “Not on your life, Bond,” Q says, “budget meetings should always happen less, never more.”

James hums, eyes trailing lazily from hip to waist to chest, “When is your next one?”

“Not ‘till next quarter—but if I’m lucky, I can fake a national emergency and get R to go—if I’m even luckier there will be a real one.”

“That seems negligent.”

Q give a huff of a laugh, “I won’t take lectures from a man who threw away—oh I’m sorry, ‘misplaced’—three out of the last four coms devices he’s been given. And the one you did bring back was burned to high heaven. If I were a weaker man, I’d take it personally.”

“You should,” Bonds eyes drag to Q’s and the spark is delicious, “for Boothroyd I would have misplaced all four.” A pause, “before the mission started.”

Q’s head tips back in a laugh and Bond can see his chest move underneath the fitted fabric, “You certainly know how to make a man feel special, Bond.”

“That is, of course, my goal.”

* * *

James doesn’t see Q for a long while after that. He hears him often—every other day, if not more—over the coms unit that he does not misplace or lose or destroy. There’s something about Q’s way that has shifted from annoying brat with too much to prove to interesting conversationalist and not half bad strategist. The wealth of information that Q has at his disposal certainly doesn’t hurt either.

James probably shouldn’t be connecting with Q as much as he is, as a guest of an eccentric billionaire that seems to have taken a liking to a human trafficking ring, with paranoia for days.

But James has never been good with missions involving child victims (no one is ever _good_ at it, but there’s some part of James that’s still a boy hiding in a priest hole that pushes to the forefront when he sees their weary and hopeless eyes) and talking to Q grounds him just that bit he needs to not rescue the children and burn this place to ashes without first getting the information necessary to dismantle the ring entirely instead of just denting it.

M was his corner stone, and the loss of her will never stop affecting him. But talking with Q helps. It doesn’t lessen the hole in his chest, but the inflamed edges are soothed.

And so it is that James is waiting with little patience for Q to open their secure line after sending over the Morse code indicating the coast is clear.

“Just a mo’,” James hears and then what can only be described as a feline wail.

“I hope your mortgage is a sight better than how your cat sounds.” James can’t help but quip, then, with more interest than annoyance, “I didn’t know you really had a cat.”

He can hear Q roll his eyes, “A strange thing to lie about. I’m not you.”

“I’m more surprised to learn you may have an actual home that isn’t your MI6 office.”

“You and the rest of the agency, I’m sure.”

“Why’d you answer then, if you’re out for the one hour a year you take off?”

“Really,” Q huffs, “is that even a question? I’m certainly not leaving anyone else at the mercies of our most colorful agent.”

The room is cold. Or maybe that’s him. Bond curses his ears for picking up the sound of small feet. Mr. Mortagian has a few ‘honored guests’ of his own, as he calls them.

“Tell me about it.” James gets out, wanting to be not here for just a moment. This can end soon, it has to, but he needs to save a bit of himself as well, “Your cat.” He supplies as Q doesn’t immediately start. It’s not a new request. Sometimes James just wants to listen, sometimes they’ll banter, and sometimes he’ll just listen to the clank of keys and the soft murmurs of Q branch as the world around him continues on. But it is the first time he’s asked for personal details and he wonders (vaguely, briefly) if Q will deny him.

“She’s orange.” Q starts, “heaven knows what outside of that but she’s about as orange as a terrible spray tan. Her name is Cat because I had no intention of owning a cat and naming it would form an attachment.

“She’s terribly attention seeking…” James can picture Q petting the orange thing in his mind's eye as he says it, fondly giving the creature her due, “much like a certain 00 agent. She yells for food like I’ve forgotten to feed her for a week every morning as if yelling makes it better. She always loses her toys somehow, even though she’s turned into a house cat.”

“Ever brought you dead things?”

“No, I save that sort of fetching for you, Bond.”

James snorts and feels a bit more in sync. “I thought I was particularly bad at bringing things back.”

“Even old dogs can learn new tricks. Some call me crazy but I hold out hope.

“How generous of you, Q.”

“Quite so.”

They lapse into silence; Bond can maybe just pick out the rough purr of Cat over Q’s soft breathing. He’s waiting for Q to tell him to go, or that he really needs to sleep or some other indicator that Bond is overstaying his quartermaster’s patience. The reprimand doesn’t come and the silence continues. It’s familiar. It’s nice.

* * *

“I always hoped, but I never thought I’d actually see the day when you brought back your earpiece in a functional state.” Q stood in something close to shock, looking down at his desk where Bond’s earpiece sits front and center. He can’t really blame Q for the reaction, the earpiece has generally been the first thing to go when on mission, or mysteriously disappeared close to the conclusion, James disappearing into the mist to find himself under the weight of duty and missions with too much.

It would be a lie to say that the latter hadn’t crossed his mind after this particular mission, watching the children get shuffled out of confined spaces with old looking eyes, men raging as their ‘property’ is taken. They’d gotten the big players, but the head of the human trafficking ring is still out there, and it gnaws on Bond to no end. The worst though, the absolute worst, is knowing some of the children can’t go home because home is what sold them into this mess.

Bond worries, late at night when his defenses are shot and the world looks grey, that if his parents had lived, if he hadn’t ended up an orphan too young (any age is too young), would his parents have done such things? Would they have done something unforgivable? Is it always just a matter of time before parents betray their children?

“Well, there is something about old dogs and new tricks.” Bond bares his teeth.

Q smiles sweetly back.

James lingers, and Q seems to expect it, smile getting larger.

“Well?”

“Hmm?” James starts, unaffected, taking his eyes away from the line of Q’s jaw, the sweep of his neck.

“Aren’t you going to ask?” He flicks the bow tie with a finger.

“I thought that you were trying out a new fashion trend.”

Q laughs, “Never before have I been accused of having fashion sense, Bond, please.” His eyes light up in the way Alec does with fiery explosives, “it has a negative magnetic charge to wipe cards and digital information storage (not those of my own design of course), and there’s a homing beacon that’s undetectable that activates automatically when untied, _and_ the left edge is razor sharp. And of course it’s tuxedo black so you can wear it to all those fancy galas you have a penchant for getting ‘lost’ at.”

Bond drags his eyes along the lines of the fabric, where black meets white; “Interesting.”

“Well that’s underwhelming.” Q says, but there’s no heat behind the words only the kind of giddy excitement new technologies give him.

“You’re testing isn’t complete with this,” Bond says, and at Q’s quirked eyebrow, “can’t know if it will work unless you’re in the full tuxedo, of course.”

Q snorts “I’d quite prefer to leave that to the field testing, 007.”

“Negligence, then.” Bond says and it feels like a joke between friends

“I would threaten that you won’t be allowed to test it out, but I am quite worried about you getting kidnapped again.” Q turns back to station, “Like that time in Spain of all places, you were missing for weeks! And I gave you three different tracking devices” Q looks over his shoulder with affront, as though it was certainly Bond’s fault that the tie pin was nabbed as a listening device (it wasn’t), or the earwig was knocked out by the punch from an actual masked wrestler, or (most shamefully) the money clip and the associated monies stolen by a pick-pocket. It was maybe his fault for staying gone an extra week and a half.

It was before Q was Q. Boothroyd had been the quartermaster and as far as Bond knew, Q wasn’t even an inkling. Apparently, he was wrong.

“Boothroyd and M didn’t seem to mind all that much.”

“Mh,” Q says, but there’s an underlying heat, “They seemed to be under the false impression that cats have an infinite number of lives. I am not going to take such chances.” He hits a key with more force than is perhaps warranted, speaking to more than one conversation between thin lips and a level of involvement that James can’t quite wrap his mind around.

“What were you?” Bond feels genuinely curious, “before Q?”

Q silently stutters for a moment, “Enough of that then.” A door slammed shut that the owner didn’t realize they had left open. “If you’re quite done making a nuisance of yourself…” Q starts, and James decides a semi-graceful exit is in order.


	2. Chapter 2

Q doesn’t get distant, as James half expects him to—which in fairness he should have expected what he least expected, Q never does as one would think—but he does change, ever so slightly. It’s like everything has been shifted just a tad to the left. Everything is where it’s supposed to be, but off, just enough to nag at the back of your mind.

James can’t place it at first, what’s different, and it goes like that long enough that he’s half a mind to think nothing’s actually different and he’s finally lost it. But then Q will look at him just so and James knows there’s something.

He can’t place it though, until he’s thousands of miles away, having lost contact with the home office after his mission was supposedly over. He had caught the bad guy, sent them off to Interpol without fanfare (technically, he still wasn’t allowed to operate in Bulgaria, after that incident at the embassy), and was praised by Q for finishing quickly and not losing a bit of tech.

“Your flight is in three hours, Bond. We’ll be seeing you soon.”

“Just enough time to return to the exhibit.” James says with wry smile, already making his way back to the museum full of priceless artifacts still exactly where they were supposed to be thanks to his intervention.

“Just enough time to pack and take a leisurely ride to the airport.” Q shoots back and James feels the outside security camera follow his steps.

“Yes, of course,” he looks at the camera with a wink, “and if I happen to miss my flight, it’s due to poor infrastructure.”

Q has a way of getting riled that Bond loves—he doesn’t even have to be on the same continent to know he’s getting a reaction. But one thing out of everything gets the most reaction a James will never not adore it.

Not breaking eye contact with the camera—with Q—James reaches for his ear.

“Don’t you dare—don’t you dare 007! I will end you I swear I’ll leave you to the dogs next time you’re captured, I’ll let Cat feast on your remains! I’ll—”

Bond puts the ear piece in his pocket and gives it a gentle pat before walking into the gallery room.

* * *

He doesn’t actually have plans to miss his flight. This mission has been the easiest to date since M’s death, certainly. He hadn’t even needed to use any tech outside of a taser of all things, and that had actually been the art thief’s. Getting a light buzz before the flight while looking at beautiful people would be a good end to the day.

With that James gets a drink at the bar. It’s a new bartender, likely a shift change, so James gives his order anew, with just the right level of sex in his voice that everyone at these kinds of events has. He surveys the crowd, watching the duchess whose beau has been arrested due to his interventions look around for the man. He would feel bad, if she hadn’t almost certainly been in on it. But even in his line of work, sometimes who you know can get you a pass.

There are plenty of young things draped on the arms of older men and woman, as much a piece of artwork as the paintings. Their owners’ eyes say ‘look but don’t touch’ and beg anyone to try and break the unstated rule.

“You’re drink, Sir.” The drink is placed at his elbow and James takes a sip as the bartender waits for his approval or dismissal.

James nods, “Is there a bit of mint?” He asks absently, already looking back at the crowd.

“Yes sir,” the bartender says as he takes another sip and James sees a woman in a stunning red dress make her way towards him with intent. She’s wearing the same heels Q had, that day, “masks the taste of the paralytic nicely, I think.”

A shot of ice goes down his spine. Bond tries to slow his heart rate, not to panic, not to spread the drug, whatever it is, faster.

“Hello Darling,” the woman in red says, taking his drink from his hand that cannot move, “Its oh-so-nice to finally meet you in person. Raoul was right, you really are quite pretty.” She drags a hand along his jaw. “Such a shame he isn’t here now.”

She gives Bond a moment to understand his position. From the way his spine feels, Bond knows he can’t move, but it doesn’t stop his fingers from trying to twitch, from attempting a bid for freedom.

Her smile widens, “Come along then, sweetie.”

The men on either side of him at the bar turn in sync, each grabbing an arm and carting him away. The night continues uninterrupted for the guests. There aren’t any cameras in here (Q had stressed that quite enough when handing James his earpiece), and no guest seems inclined to witness.

James is put into the back of a car, hands tied, and his captor sits next to him, her red lips reminding him, strangely, of venom.

“I am quite sorry for this bit, James.” She says and then the world goes black.

* * *

When Bond comes to, he’s certainly not in Bulgaria anymore. It doesn’t even look like he’s in Europe, or feel like it, with the humidity high in the air, weighing everything down with a wetness that seeps into his bones. James curses and tries his binds, not surprised, but certainly annoyed, when they hold fast.

“Isn’t this lovely?” The woman in red now wears navy pants and jacket and a striped shirt. It’s light outside from what he can tell, and though it feels like he’s been out for only minutes, it has to have been longer than five hours, at least.

He’s very much missed his flight. He can only hope to get out of this intact, or that Q knows, somehow, that he hasn’t just taken another unplanned vacation. His chances aren’t looking very good either way. He wonders if Q will really feed him to Cat, if there are any remains left to be had, that is.

“You get to help me get back my merchandise, Mr. Bond, it’s only fair. Considering what you’ve put me through.” She says with a dramatic sigh.

James stares at her. He’s never seen her before, of that he can be certain, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t crossed her in some way. James is very good at making enemies.

The woman walks closer to him, tied tight to a chair, and settles herself on his lap. James stays silent.

“Comes now,” she runs her hands up his chest, fiddles with his bowtie until it comes lose and slowly pops a button, “you must have a guess?”

Bond looks away as she undoes another button, and then another. The room he’s in is warehouse-like, lots of empty space and rafters high above. His chair is the only piece of furniture in the vicinity. Except—no there are a few mattresses on the floor in the far corner. There’s no way the woman is making use of them from her dress and manner. And is that a children’s book?

“You’re ‘Mummy’.”

“Oh very good!” ‘Mummy’ leans back, content with her place on his lap, “I was wondering if I would have you undressed by the time you caught on. Although I hear your legacy has gone through some _hard_ times and might not be any fun.” She says in faux sympathy, patting his cheek, eyes on his groin. Bond fights the urge to fidget.

“As much as I love grown men calling me Mummy like all the little children, _you_ can call me ‘ _M_ ’’.” her smirk gets sharp and something in Bond’s gut coils, “That’s right, isn’t it? She was always a mother figure for you, wasn’t she?” ‘M’ gives a laugh, “Oh yes, I know quite a bit about you, Bond, you have a very chatty enemies, sweet boy.

“Now,” she pats his thighs, “we will find my children and bring them back home. I so hate to have an empty nest.”

With that, an explosion rocks the foundations and M is off him in a second, screaming something that James can’t really make out. Men and women filter from the woodwork, well-armed for attacks that aren’t bombs. Another explosion—and this time the front half of the warehouse is gone and Bond’s ears are ringing and he doesn’t think M avoided that one. Another blast, another, and James stuck here on a chair waiting to die.

A woman comes out of the smoke in tactical gear and a too big weapon and James knows this is it.

“——-f” she says something, but he can’t make anything out, outside the ringing in his ears but then his bonds are being cut and James is hauled up. “——d——fu———q——ry—”

James squints through the dust as best he can to identify his apparent savior, but he’s being tugged along at a pace his legs can’t match after being tied so long. He’s all but thrown into a jeep and they speed away and James can see more explosions behind them—whatever happens, ‘M’ won’t be a threat again.

Bond coughs a hacking cough and tries to wipe the soot out of his eyes. Another cough and the ringing in his ears starts to dissipate.

“Back with us then?” Bond turns to the driver and suddenly it’s 003 looking like the cat that got the canary.

“Should’ve let me die,” Bond grosses; she’ll never let him live this one down. He saved her from drowning that one time, but there’s nothing quite like getting kidnapped after mission to bruise an ego.

Jen’s laugh is bright, “Can’t have that, the quartermaster says you owe him some tech.”

“Q?” Bond taps his pocket and isn’t the least bit surprised to feel it empty, “Afraid I might have misplaced it all.”

“Not this, at least,” Jen gives a tug at the end of his undone bow tie.

“My—” James runs his fingers over the end, “that bastard.”

Jen giggles in delight, “One of these days, your whole wardrobe is going to be filled with trackers. Apparently, you’re already on your seventh life and the quartermaster isn’t keen on wasting the few that remain.”

“I’m not even hurt this time.” James scoffs, there’s always something about being with other agents that allows them all to open up, to act more like large children with things that go boom than the cultured agents that blend into high society they are so much of the time. Jen looks pointedly at his forehead. James gives it a pat and his hand comes away red. He hadn’t even felt it.

“Not hurt bad.” Bond amends with a tilt of his head. Jen probably goes over that next bump on purpose, just to hear him grunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you’re enjoying it—and if you are please leave a comment, it’s nice to know I’m not writing into the void entirely; any instance of another human being acknowledging my existence is very much appreciated during these....interesting times.


	3. Chapter 3

James isn’t quite sure what kind of welcome he’ll get. Medical got him for three days on half-fraudulent reports of bruised ribs and dehydration on top of superficial cuts (he thinks Dr. Yuu just really wanted to poke him with needles and used the report as an excuse).

In that time, 003 has come by to say bye on her way to her next mission, which meant she showed off her new gadgets and laughed that he is getting old (“Stuck in Medical and you haven’t even got a cast.” She gives a mocking coo and pats his arm, “Don’t you worry, I’ll get the big baddies.”).

Malroy had come by for a strange mix of ‘good effort’ and ‘you’re a waste of resources’ and ‘glad you’re back’. He always seems pleasantly surprised to see Bond still alive, which is rather insulting, when he thinks about it. Tanner had stopped by for a game of poker to keep Bond from going absolutely stir crazy and Moneypenny dropped by to remind him that she’s the only one allowed to kill him for real.

(“M wasn’t worried at all,” Moneypenny had said, “thought you were on another one of your unsanctioned vacations with some ritzy art lover. But Q wasn’t having it—and you know how he can get.

“Didn’t have much to go on until we got your beacon, but Q had already narrowed it to the coast, so 003 was close. I personally think the air strike was a bit much, but that boy is all about theatrics.” And then, conspiratorially, “M was about ready to bite his head off, but the clever little devil already had all the details on why his method was the best for the interests of queen and country—M didn’t have leg to stand on. Oh, you would have _loved_ his face, Bond, loved it.”)

James makes his way to Q branch and doesn’t mind that there’s no hush, that the world continues as he walks in. Q is where he’s supposed to be, and he looks so achingly normal that Bond feels snapped back in place—a joint realigned that he had forgotten was out of sorts.

Bond walks up and places the bow tie on Q’s desk.

Q gives him a side look, “I told you it would work fine in the field.”

“Negligent.” Bond gives a wry smile, “it was obviously the wrong shade of black.”

“Seemed to serve you well enough.” Q turns to face him, eyes bright.

“Luck, pure luck.” Bond steps closer, making the space between them feel like home.

“Well aren’t you just a lucky cat then, Bond?” He holds his ground.

James hums, “I hear I’ve used up seven of my lives already.”

“Six, actually, you’re on your seventh now.” Q smiles and it’s all teeth, “I did say I was keeping track.”

“I never doubted.” 

“Off with you now, I do have other agents to keep alive—and these ones even give me a hand.” Q sets his hand on Bond’s arm and gives a little push. James feels the warmth of it as he walks out.

* * *

“So I hear you made Richie cry.” Q says over the earpiece, “And by that, I mean Richie is standing next to me: crying.” A beat, “Richie for heaven's sake get a tissue.”

James would like to say he was above smiling at that, but saying it doesn’t make it true and his dry lips pull at the quirk; “Why did you leave then?”

“Come now Bond you are not a child; you can handle another sitter for a moment or two.”

“Well?” James presses.

“Didn’t you have an emergency of some sort?” Q asks and it’s such a crap evasion that James honestly has to wonder how this man works at a spy agency.

“No emergency, just friendly banter.”

James can all but hear the glare and, from the whimper that makes it across the line, it’s not just him that’s on the receiving end.

“You started listing the ways you can kill someone with something inane, didn’t you.” It’s not a question. Bond smiles.

Q’s sigh is clear across the line, “Richie, go back to your station, 007, go jump off a cliff.”

“But I’m on life number seven.” James can’t help saying, “What’s that guy work in anyway? Cyberterrorism?”

The silence is a stitch too long.

“I cannot believe you handed the coms over to a Cy-Ter.” James says with something closely resembling shock. If he’s known for excessive destruction, the cyberterrorism unit is best known for their utter lack of ability to interact with people. As a whole, q branch was down there on the social skills scale, but cy-ter brought it to a whole new level.

“I was only gone a second, I didn’t expect you to actually call in.”

“You’re getting careless.” Bond chides with no real heat.

“For heaven’s sake Bond, you are four hours into a stakeout and according to every report I have at my disposal, the target won’t even return home for another three hours.” Q grumbles, “And might I remind you that _you_ were the one to insist “

“It’s called diligence.” Bond retorts absentmindedly, suddenly feeling every stiff muscle complaining after too long still.

Q sighs across the line, “Well, what is it then? What's got you in such a tiff?”

James debates stretching his legs, knowing full well if he gives into the urge, he’ll just become more restless than he already is, “Nothing.” He gets out. Now that Q is on the line, James doesn’t actually want to talk anymore.

“I will hang up on you.” Q threatens, but there’s no heat in it and James fancies that Q might get tired too, sometimes.

“What would you do...” Bond starts, staring down at the street below, “if I asked you to dinner?”

“I would say annoying me first isn’t a great way to get me to say yes.”

“But would you? Say yes?”

“Bond,” Q sighs, “For the past four years, I have had to listen to you hit on women left and right with terrible lines that they somehow still say yes to—”

“It’s my face.”

“— _yes_ , I _know_ it’s your bloody _face_.“ Q rolls his eyes, Bond just knows it, “You’ve decided to ask me when all I can see of you is a grainy, semi-human shaped blob on CCTV footage. “

“That’s because I think too highly of you to use cheap tactics.” James certainly does not drop his voice an octave and add just a little bit of gravel to it.

Q snorts, “As if anything about you has ever been _cheap_.”

Bond looks down at his suit. It's a few thousand pounds, “are you referring to my rich personality?”

“Sure.” Q quips, “Let's call it that.”

“I’ve yet to hear a ‘no’” James gets out with something like bemusement coloring his tone. He half expected to be hung up on. More than half, really.

“Perhaps I'm thinking of how to let you down without damaging your fragile ego.”

“You have never once in your life concerned yourself with the state of my ego.” James’ eyes track a car slowly making its way down the street and then it dawns on him, “You’re trying to figure out how to say yes without giving me the satisfaction.” He smiles down at the street, quite pleased with himself.

“Stop that childish grinning.”

“I thought I was a ‘human shaped blob’.”

“You are.” Q drawls, “Bring back your kit in one piece.”

“I'm taking that as a yes.”

Q says nothing, which is as good an answer as any

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! This duo is so fun to write for, gotta love the banter :D as ever and always, feedback is adored <3


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